


The Way The Water Makes You Look

by EloquentSavage



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom Derek Hale, Derek Hale & Jordan Parrish Friendship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Non-Human Jordan Parrish, Not Beta Read, Stiles is Legal, Top Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 21:23:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2826563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EloquentSavage/pseuds/EloquentSavage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Releasing Derek reluctantly, Stiles moved down his body like he wasn’t willing to give up contact. “I didn’t forget,” Stiles said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way The Water Makes You Look

**Come over, bring the bestiary.**

Sending the text to Stiles took less than ten seconds, but it was almost too long away from Jordan, and the overwhelming panic that was quietly pouring out of him. Lydia hovered nearby, not allowed to touch Jordan because Jordan wouldn’t let her. She eyed him warily, ignoring Derek when he spoke to her. Her lips pursed into a hard, thin line as she paced. She was distracted, in pain, and holding an ice pack to her shoulder, so he didn't blame her. Derek stopped waiting for her to respond to him. He touched her arm, draining away the pain from the burn as well as he could. Relief released her crinkled brow and she finally acknowledged his presence. She smiled gratefully, but her eyes remained fixed on Jordan. 

Fortunately, Derek had never burned a lover, but he had accidentally sunk his claws into sensitive flesh on more than one occasion. The worst part was the sick sense of self loathing afterward. After the panic wore off. Lydia was still in the middle of trying to understand what happened, but Jordan had already embraced the downward spiral of self loathing before he arrived at Derek's loft. By the time Lydia was ready to comfort Jordan, he quietly demanded she keep her distance. Lydia had raised her voice, arguing with Jordan about proximity. Jordan refused to budge, and Lydia was keeping her distance, no matter how much she didn't like it. 

Before he intervened they both said things they didn't mean. Derek put himself between them, silently, and they stopped shouting. The argument continued regardless. They were both convinced they were right, but neither of them could possibly be. There was no right way to deal with the situation they were in. They had come to him because he knew things like that, even though he knew nothing about relationships like theirs. He had never been asked to mediate and problem solve before, but he watched Talia do it for a ears. He wasn't afraid to try. 

Lydia eyed Derek helplessly, as she paced, probably hoping he was on her side, but she wasn’t his problem at the moment, Jordan was. Jordan was busy sinking into the couch, rubbing his forehead, hunched over uncomfortably with his elbows on his knees. Derek recognized that particular breaking point, Jordan's unwillingness to argue was coming from an overwhelming fear he might lose control. Derek shook his head, silently warning Lydia to keep her distance. 

“He is over reacting,” Lydia insisted, her voice brittle and angry as she finally turned her attention to Derek in earnest. 

“He is not over reacting," Derek responded quietly. "It's terrifying to lose control and hurt a person you care about, especially when he was trying to do the opposite. He needs a minute to settle, and feel in control again." Derek sighed when Lydia's lips went tight like he didn't get it. "He needs to trust himself, and you aren’t helping by telling him he's wrong about everything,” Derek pointed out quietly. 

The right words worked a kind of magic Derek still wasn’t used to. Lydia gave in immediately. Her expression softened and she stopped pacing. A newly determined scowl wrinkled her forehead as she made her way to the opposite end of the couch, far away from Jordan. She sat down gingerly, quietly, no longer interested in controlling the situation. They stared at each other for a moment. It was obvious Jordan was thankful Lydia finally looked like she was willing to keep her distance, and Lydia was thankful Jordan had stopped avoiding eye contact. 

Fishing his phone out of his pocket impatiently, Derek stared at the screen again. He thumbed in one word: ‘Now’ and sent the message. He was sure Stiles wasn’t doing anything. He complained enough about not having any plans. There was no good reason for him to take so long to respond. Derek watched from afar as Lydia and Jordan talked tentatively for a moment. Their obvious truce made Derek relax, a little. He was about to text Stiles again when a message flashed across his screen. Stiles, telling him to fuck off, he was busy. Derek sent a short, scathing text in response, informing Stiles of how little Derek believed him, and how he had better get his rude ass over as fast as he could, or else. The lack of response was a good sign Stiles was pissed, but Derek didn't care, as long as he showed up with the bestiary. 

The moment Stiles walked through the door he would be consumed by Lydia's distress. He would forget about everything else, even Derek's rudeness, and offer to help with whatever she needed. It was the way Stiles was. Orbiting Lydia like a dying star, unable to see anything else. Derek didn't think Stiles even wanted her romantically anymore. It didn't seem to matter. Stiles fixated for so long, he didn't know any other way. Stiles loved Lydia. He wanted to protect her and make sure she was safe, and Stiles didn’t believe anyone could accomplish that as well as he could. 

After all the times Stiles saved everyone, maybe he was right. Either way, once he finally showed up, Stiles wouldn’t remember how angry he probably was. Even if he did, Stiles had made far more brutal demands of Derek in the past, on Lydia's behalf. 

“What about the dream?” Lydia asked. Her voice was quiet and girlish as she lulled Jordan into a calmer headspace. Derek watched her practically hypnotize Jordan for a moment. He didn't understand why, but it was working remarkably well. Lydia had an even stronger hold on Jordan than she had ever had on Stiles. Probably because she never tried to have a hold on Stiles at all. 

“I still don’t recall,” Jordan said. “I know I remembered it when I woke up because I told you, but it’s just gone now.”

“It’s still there, it has to be. You’ll remember,” Lydia assured him. 

“What dream?” Derek asked. Dreams tended to be more than a little prophetic for people like Jordan. His subconscious and genetic memory knew a lot more than his conscious mind. If the information wanted out, and it would find a way. 

“He woke up screaming last night. I would have assumed it had more to do with his time in the service than all this,” Lydia waved a hand dismissively, proving just how much she understood about Jordan’s previous life, and how little it bothered her. “He was saying a name though, I think? Auroros or maybe it was Orboros, like the snake? I don’t think I spelled it right when I googled it.” Lydia reached out for Jordan, dropping her hand in defeat before she got close enough to touch him because the boundaries were still firmly in place. 

Orboros was a common myth. Most people had heard of, and seen the symbol. If that was it, Jordan would probably remember, or pronounced it correctly. The name Eboros on the other hand scratched at Derek's mind in a way that assured him he had heard the word before. He paced, then stood in his kitchen, thinking for a few minutes. After a while, he still had nothing. He had to try something different than staring at his black, rain soaked windows. 

If Jordan was saying a name in his sleep, all they really had to do was help him release it from his subconscious.

“Jordan, you’re here because you trust me, right?” Jordan nodded in agreement. “Will you try something for me, even if you don't understand why?” Derek asked. 

“Yeah, of course,” Jordan gestured openly, like the question never needed to be asked. 

“Come over to the table,” Derek directed him while he situated himself on the other side, his arms reaching across. Hesitantly, Jordan put his hands on the table, folding them together, unsure of what Derek was going to ask him to do. “You need to try and relax, okay?” Derek smiled, attempting to ease Jordan down from the sharp edge he was still teetering on. 

Lydia watched from the couch silently. They both needed space still apparently. It was good. Jordan needed to be calm. He needed to concentrate, and feel like Derek knew exactly what he was doing even though being the expert made him feel like a fraud. Especially with someone looking at him like he had all the answers, and all Jordan had to do was wait for it to spill out. It was more than a little painful to watch Jordan try to relax, still. He was like a giant raw nerve about to Burst at any moment. He needed to come down if anything brain related was going to work. 

Grasping Jordan’s shoulder firmly, Derek looked him in the eye and concentrated on his expression. He let his hand travel up, tightening around the nape of Jordan’s neck reassuringly. “I know you’re going to be okay, and so do you,” Derek said, assuring Jordan in every way he knew how. 

A long ragged breath hissed through Jordan’s teeth and his eyes went glassy with relief. His head dropped as his muscles loosened under Derek’s hand as he nodded. Derek clapped his shoulder, reassuring him again, then mirrored Jordan’s stance because he heard that put people at ease somewhere. Probably from Stiles. He folded his hands loosely on the table in front of him, and sat up straight. Jordan took a deep breath and looked back up at Derek. He nodded to show he was ready for whatever Derek had planned.

“What do you want me to do?” Jordan asked. 

“Just answer questions, but you have to do it fast. Don't think, just answer.” 

“You mean like word association?” 

“Yes," Derek nodded. "If you don't think, just answer, you’ll blurt something out without filtering it. It works because you know what you are, somewhere in there." 

“Then why didn't we do this weeks ago?” Jordan asked. 

“In my experience these things don't really work that well unless you’ve hit rock bottom,” Derek explained, patting Jordan on the shoulder again for good measure. 

Fortunately, physical contact relaxed Jordan. Unlike Derek, who still struggled with anyone in his space he didn’t trust with his life. It was a short list. Lydia, Jordan could hurt, but Derek was invincible for all intents and purposes. Every time Derek reached out, Jordan trusted him more. Derek could see it in his eyes, and the set of his shoulders. 

“Rapid fire, try to answer as fast as you can,” Derek demanded. 

“Okay,” Jordan agreed. 

“What’s the first word you think of when I say glass?” Derek asked. 

“Mirror,” Jordan answered. 

“Cat,” Derek stated, certain Jordan would fall into the pattern. 

“Wolf.” 

“Fire.” 

“Black.” Jordan’s answer was a bit odd, but he survived the fire in the cruiser and was covered in black ash from Stiles description of it. Derek noted the response, just in case. 

“Sky.” 

“Wings.” 

“Water.” 

“Life.” 

“Black,” Derek asked, bringing Jordan’s answer back now that he was answering in a more rapid fire manner. 

“Raven.” 

“Raven?” Derek asked, stopping the questions because the answer triggered something. It dragged up a memory he hadn’t thought of in years. “The Raven Fighters, Brannovices.” 

Stepping back from the table, he fixed his eyes on Jordan, trying to see something that looked like an aura, wings or the silverish energy of something that powerful, but nothing was there. “One of the first Raven Fighters in written history was named Eboros. How could I forget that?” Derek asked himself. He had loved the stories of the Raven Fighters when he was little. Talia used to tell them just for him. No one else liked them as much as he did. 

“What is that?” Jordan asked hopefully. 

“They were supernatural protectors. Something like a hellhound, but bigger and better. Some people say they traveled the world, moving from one place to another in the blink of an eye. Always going where they were they were needed. They protected Shiva, Ganesh, Mahakala, and countless other gods. They pop up in mythologies all over the world, but the name Brannovices comes from Julius Caesar, his account of them. They were some of the fiercest warriors in Ancient Rome. The Raven Fighters...” Derek trailed off. 

All mythology had some basis in reality. The Raven Fighters were most likely the origin story of the Phoenix bird legend, vanishing into a burst of flame and rematerializing somewhere else entirely. It would look like death and rebirth perhaps. History was often written by the humans that observed the supernatural, and they got it wrong most of the time. Jordan hadn’t died, but he also didn’t burn. The sound of fluttering feathers, the endless void, an immunity to fire. All of it was repeated in the many stories Talia had told. 

“What were you doing when you burned Lydia?” Derek asked. A guilty expression immediately engulfed Jordan’s face that had nothing to do with Lydia being burned. If Derek was anyone else he would have laughed outright at the absurdity of Jordan's modesty. “I know you were making out, or--whatever--I mean, what were you talking about, or thinking, besides the obvious?” 

“I said I wished we were anywhere but here,” Lydia admitted, her expression dark and concerned. 

That was the right answer. It was also the only answer that could push Derek to do something as dangerous as he was about to ask Jordan to do.

“Jordan, take my hands.” Derek held out his hands, flat on the table, palms up. His palms slid over Derek's tentatively, but he did it without question. Derek held his hands firmly, assuring Jordan he had a purpose. “I want you to think of blackness, like a calm, silent, dark space. Close your eyes and imagine walking into it, It’s safe. You control it, and the darkness does exactly as you ask it to.” 

The directions sounded strange, but what harm could an open, black space do? To Jordan’s credit, he still didn't question Derek's request. Instead he scowled in concentration, then close his eyes. Following Jordan’s experience was easy, just as an observer. The same power that let him drain away pain, let him silently observe the state of a persons body, like a spectator standing on the edge of the field. Jordan was safe, he felt safe at least, more than he had since he showed up. His heartbeat was steady and his body was calm. 

Subtle shifting of Jordan’s muscles told Derek he felt something. Reaching out, like he was looking for pain or anxiety, but Derek felt nothing but calm. Jordan was keeping his mind quiet like Derek asked. Anxiety suddenly flared along Jordan’s nervous system like a spiderweb of angry red energy. The shift in Jordan’s body was toward something compelling and dangerous. An overwhelming flood of power raised the hair on Derek's arms as Jordan tapped into something much greater than Derek expected. It was like a open door, and on the other side, raw, unfiltered energy. The kind that all supernatural beings were made from. 

The sizzle and scent of the flesh on his hands burning under Jordan’s was a mild annoyance, but it didn’t take his focus away from Jordan. He gripped Derek’s hands tighter, pulling back slightly, about to break the connection in a panic. Slowly, Derek hung on, draining away the anxiety, fighting against the oncoming tide. He was only observing what Jordan felt, but Derek couldn’t imagine how terrifying it must be to stand at the edge of that much power, to have access to it. Derek continued to draw out anxiety as he observed, calming Jordan so he could witness it without associating everything with the sensation of drowning in fear. He needed a clear mind to gain perspective. Jordan settled back against the table, the tension draining from his arms and hands. 

A pressure change in the air around them dragged Derek’s attention away from Jordan for a moment. The room went warm, and heavy with humidity. The muggy air and slight scent of ozone reminded him of the south, close to the Gulf. Thunder shook the building suddenly. Lydia stood, panicked, but stayed far away from them. The sound of heavy rain pouring down on the building preceded a long flash of lighting by only seconds. Then the power went out. He was certain Jordan was doing this, Derek had no idea how though. 

“Derek, I think you need to make him stop,” Lydia demanded, trying to sound calm, like it was a request. 

“Jordan, you know how to control this. You will learn slowly, and you won’t be afraid. You can leave it behind for now. It will still be there later, waiting for you. Open your eyes and walk away,” Derek said firmly, feeling Jordan sway slightly against his hands. Derek was dragging his anxiety away faster than Jordan could experience it, but Derek needed to stop soon or it would make him sick. 

A powerful place like the one Jordan apparently had access to wasn’t easy to leave for someone with practice. Derek was impressed by how quickly Jordan shut down access. He blinked and looked around, confused by how dark it was. Jordan might have heard the thunder and rain, but he hadn’t seen the power go out. He took back his hands and covered his mouth momentarily, dragging them over his face, shocked by what he had done.

Derek could see in the dark, but no one else could. He wasn’t sure if the power outage was temporary, or if Jordan had broken something somewhere along the grid, but there were no lights in the neighboring building either.

“Are you okay?” Derek asked, needing to hear Jordan sound and act like himself before he was willing to leave his side.

“Yeah,” Jordan nodded. He leaned over on the table heavily, forced to experience his own fear and anxiety again without an active connection to Derek.

Thankful his experiment worked like he wanted it to, mostly, Derek tried to contain his curiosity and excitement about what it might mean for Jordan. The Raven Fighters were powerful, amazing creatures who protected everything in their sphere of influence. They were far reaching and sometimes acted in groups, like Banshee and The Morrigan. Derek couldn’t help Jordan with his fear anymore. Jordan had to figure out on his own how to make his powers work, but that wouldn’t happen until Jordan was certain of what he was. Derek could only guess at it really, open the door to possibility. Giving Jordan that moment of clarity, a different perspective, would make everything much less frightening in the long run. That was the best Derek could give him at the moment. 

Giving Jordan a little while to decompress, Derek asked them to get comfortable and hold out until the elevator was working again at least. A moment later the few random candles Derek owned lined the table in a neat row. Lydia put down his lighter next to the last one and wrapped her arms around Jordan’s chest. They held each other in the soft candle light, watching the flickering flames for a moment. 

“Do you think he’s a Raven Fighter? Brannovices, you called them?” Lydia asked. She was far more calm than she should have been, but she knew these kinds of truths about others the way they sensed it for themselves. She could feel the truth, even if she didn't realize she was doing it. Her calm, easy demeanor assured Derek they were close to the truth if not already deep in it. 

“I think he is. I don't know if they’re in the Bestiary, but Stiles should be here soon with it,” Derek answered. “I don't know much more than a human kid might know about werewolves though, they were my fairy tales. I don't know what parts are true. With werewolves it’s both little things and more significant facts. Like, silver and the Argents or only being able to shift on the full moon. You can't count on the mythology unless you test it yourself. I’ll ask around, see who knows what. In the meantime, don’t wish to be anywhere else, or even consider it deeply until you know more, just in case.” 

Lydia nodded understanding how mythology worked. She was just as frustrated by all the misinformation in her own lineage. The Bean Nighe, The Washer Woman, The Morrigan, all of it held some truth for her, but none of it was quite right. Jordan didn’t look so understanding, his eyebrows drawn down tight. He was confused, and uneasy, but at least he was comfortable enough to rationalize now. 

“Am I?... Could I be something, evil?” Jordan asked him, proving how little he understood about any of this, and how much he was still letting the fear get the best of his rational mind. 

“No, that’s impossible. Nothing is ever inherently evil. Intelligence, and self awareness provide certain species with the opportunity to be evil, but it’s a choice. It’s never inherent,” Derek assured Jordan, but his thorough, unsentimental answer didn't seem to do much good. Jordan blinked and furrowed his eyebrows further, looking down at Lydia, still worried. “You are not evil Jordan, I would know if you were. I would feel it,” Derek assured him.

Malicious intent was not something anyone could ever associate with Jordan Parrish, but he needed to hear someone he trusted say it outloud. It didn’t matter how absurd or mystical it sounded, it was easy enough to tell Jordan the truth in terms he could understand right now. Later Derek would make him look at his power critically. Right now the look of relief that engulfed Jordan’s face made Derek smile, like he had earned a hard won prize. 

Finally moving on from the consuming anxiety, Jordan grinned at Lydia, celebrating the news. She nodded in approval, smiling back. Lydia didn't care anymore that Jordan hadn't believed her, she looked happy he finally believed someone. She wrapped her arms tight around Jordan’s chest, whispering sweet things in his ear and Jordan laughed. Derek walked to the window, his back turned so they didn't have to suffer his presence for a few moments at least. He was glad Jordan had someone like Lydia to help him. She had Jordan just the same. Derek couldn’t help the envy that flashed through his mind. He stomped it out as soon as it showed itself, like he usually did. He had the chance to have people in his life, but he was better at earning things alone and there had been too many hard lessons in his life latey to entertain the idea of making anyone else suffer through it with him. 

Learning was easier for some people than it was for him. He caugh himself lashing out, inflicted constant pain on anyone too close to him as he struggled to accept and adapt to change. It was cruel to rely on people when you used them as punching bags more often than not. He tried to be better now, but his ability to cope still felt entirely untested. The self possession, the power of his new abilities, being a wolf, sometimes he couldn’t believe it was actually his life. He had wanted power for so long. It finally came to him when he gave up, stopped wanting it. He fought for wisdom and loyalty, regardless of how afraid he was and that gave him the clarity he needed to see the truth. His fear held the clarity at bay, choking it to death for so long he almost lost everything to it, like Peter. Jordan would never have the same problem because he was a different kind of man, maybe better. 

The distant sound of pounding footsteps reverberated through the building. Derek realized the elevator wasn't working and Stiles was climbing nine flights of stairs to get up here. When he finally go to the top floor, he was going to be so incredibly pissed. Derek glanced over his shoulder. Lydia and Jordan were wrapped up in each other, oblivious to the rest of the world. Stiles wouldn't be there for a few minutes still, and nothing Derek could say to them would help make the situation any easier, it would only ruin their moment sooner. Lydia could instantly adapt to anything Stiles threw at her. She didn’t need warning. Derek would rather let her enjoy her last few minutes of peace without the sensation of impending doom that was growing inside his chest. 

Listening closely he made certain Stiles was alright, following his footsteps all the way up. Eventually they landed loudly in the hall, then in front of his door. The sliding metal sound brought Lydia and Jordan back to the present, a surprised gasp escaping past Lydia’s lips quietly as she saw Stiles. 

“Stiles, are you okay?” Lydia asked, letting Jordan go and moving toward the front door. 

Turning to see what shocked her, Derek wasn't surprised. Stiles stood motionless in his doorway, his expression dark and angry. He had been expecting anger, but the severity of his ire made an impact on Derek. Neither Lydia or Jordan could see the flare of his nostrils, or the tight clench of his jaw, but Derek could. Stiles didn't even look at Lydia when she spoke to him, demanding to know what happened. He simply held a dark, heavy looking mass out toward her that Derek assumed was the book, then walked down the steps toward Derek once she took it from him. The soft glow of the candles made Stiles look sinister somehow, the gleam of water all over his skin made it look hard and sharp, like broken glass. 

Soaked from the sudden, freak storm, his wet shirt clung to his skin. His jacket must have been wrapped around the book and he must have had to walk through the rain, but wasn't sure why he had he gotten stuck out in it to begin with. Derek tried to find the polite, kind words he was supposed to use now to ask, but all he could think about was the slick shine of wetness as Stiles turned his head toward Lydia, his eyes still fixed intently on Derek. 

“Unless you guys really need something, you should go,” Stiles said, forcing his tone toward something that resembled calm and polite. For Lydia’s sake, Derek assumed. 

“Stiles are you --” 

“Lydia, let’s go,” Jordan insisted quietly as he pushed Lydia out the front door and into the dark hallway. 

The sound of keys and a clicking noise assured Derek that they would be fine. Jordan was exactly the type of guy to have a pen light on his keychain and they were more than capable of walking down a few flights of stairs if they wanted to. If Derek could have justified it to get away from Stiles right now, he would have also. As the door slid shut Derek let what concerns he had left about the two of them go. They were fine, they would be even better soon far from here, especially if the information they needed was in the Bestiary. He, on the other hand, seemed to be in very deep shit. 

Staying close to the table, far away from Derek, Stiles paced slowly and deliberately. His long, thin muscles moved under his wet clothes gracefully despite the discomfort they must have been causing him. Stiles thought he was acting like someone to be feared because he was intimidating and angry. He had no idea how beautiful he had become, or how compelling he was when he fixed his eyes in a dark predatory gaze. Stiles thought he was expressing how dangerous his anger was, but Derek kept his distance for an entirely different reason. 

When Stiles narrowed his eyes accusingly, his mouth dropped open like he intended to speak, but he shut his mouth again quickly. The hard, twisted line of his mouth only made Derek fixate on its shape further. The spectacle of rage and beauty in front of Derek would haunt him for days if he didn't put a stop to it. Derek was about to ask if he was okay when Stiles raised his hand, silencing him before he had a chance to talk. 

“You will never speak to me that way again,” Stiles said slowly, emphasizing the never part. “I am not your fucking errand boy. I am not a child, and I am not some underling you can bark orders at. You will ask, politely,” Stiles demanded, his voice firm and threatening. 

Stiles was serious. He had an unwavering expectation that Derek would respect him now, simply because Stiles was asking Derek to. He had often wondered if, and when, this conversation would happen. Tonight wasn’t ideal, but there was never a good time for things like this, they happened when they wanted to. 

“I can do that, if you’re just as polite in return,” Derek answered, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, defending his right to be treated equally. 

“You don't get to -- fine, but just keep your fucking mouth shut until I’m done talking for now,” Stiles whispered angrily, holding his long, claw-like hands in front of him like he was about to burst with rage. “I was busy when you cussed me out and demanded I come here now. I was trying my hardest to blow off some steam. Something I’ve been having a really a hard time doing lately. For some fucking reason my Jeep broke down on the way over, right as this freak rain storm hit. I’m freezing, pissed, wound up, and my fucking feet hurt!” Stiles listed off a layers of stress that would bring anyone down, but they both knew Stiles wasn’t just anyone. His life was far more complicated than he deserved. There were a lot more layers Stiles hadn't listed off because he didn't count them anymore, even though they counted him. 

“I apologize, you can change, take a shower and warm up. I --” Derek moved toward him, but stopped as Stiles took a step back, holding his hand up. He was warning Derek to not to come any closer for some reason. Tension and anger didn't explain his need for that much proximity, but Derek gave it to him anyways stopping a few feet away. Stiles eyed him warily, like he was still afraid Derek might approach. “I’ll stay right here. I’m sorry.” Derek assured him, making a sincere attempt to be kind and ease Stiles' mind. 

Reassuring Stiles was supposed to make him feel better, but he suddenly looked even more unhappy. A broken, pained expression twisted his face like Stiles had done something awful, something worth regretting. It was like he was collapsing in on himself like a house of cards. Derek wanted to do something, comfort him somehow, but Stiles still held his hand up slightly, warning Derek to stay away. 

“This was a mistake. I shouldn't have come. You have such awful timing,” Stiles said, stumbling as he took a step backward toward the door. 

Slipping on the wet concrete, Stiles reached out and grabbed on to the table for stability. It tipped as he struggled to right himself threatening to come down on top of him, candles and all. Derek rushed forward and picked Stiles up, easily setting him right again. 

Unexpectedly, the air around him was violated by the unmistakable scent of arousal. It wasn't the usual faint scent of sexual interest Stiles seemed to suffer with constantly. This was the heady, intoxicating scent of someone who had recently touched themselves, purposely working themselves up. The realization dawned on Derek that this was what Stiles meant when he said he had been blowing off steam. The distracting, powerful scent didn't seem like Stiles was having trouble wih himself, but frustration was also something that clung to Stiles constantly. It was hard to tell if it was there. Derek wasn't sure Stiles would smell like Stiles without it. 

They had been standing too close to each other for too long, Stiles was only a few inches away, and he was not happy about it. Unintentionally Derek was invading his privacy, and Stiles knew it. Derek was aware he should let go of Stiles’ arm, but he didn't want to. Part of him hoped Stiles would stop being so angry and do something else, but he never did. No matter how wholeheartedly Derek wanted him to. 

Convincing himself to let Stiles go was far more difficult than it should have been. Derek did things he didn’t want to all the time, but this time he was stuck, like a magnet was holding him there mercilessly. He wanted get closer to Stiles, test if the scent was getting stronger, or if Derek was making that up. The ultimate self destructive wishful thinking. 

“You’re a fucking bastard,” Stiles finally said with unmasked contempt. 

Wrenching his arm free, Stiles hit Derek in the chest with just enough force to show how frustrated he really was. The blow wasn't meant to hurt him, just convince him of how vile Stiles thought he was. Stiles must have sensed Derek didn't believe it because he did it again. Derek let him because it was better than watching him suffer while Derek floundered uselessly, transfixed by things he should be more willing to ignore. Stiles hurt his hand hitting Derek a third time, pain registering across his face like a flash of lightning. Derek caught his wrist as he tried to hit him again, stopping Stiles from hurt himself further. 

Cursing loudly, Stiles pushed and fought against Dereks grip, his upper lip curling in an animalistic snarl. His face expressed nothing less than sheer, unadulterated hatred, but the scents that filled the air around them expressed the complete opposite. Even as angry and hateful as Stiles was, Derek wanted to bury his face against Stiles neck and take it all in, the lust, the hate, the anger. He wanted it all so badly, the desire made him feel like an unredeemable piece of shit. 

"You're not okay," Derek said, trying to focus on the important thing in front of him. Stiles was suffering, and Derek had made it worse. 

"Me? I'm not the one with the scary, bright blue eyes," Stiles wiggled his long, almost pornographic fingers at Derek's face childishly even though his hands were trapped. 

Blinking rapidly, Derek realized his eyes were blue, his pulse was racing and he was staring at Stiles' twisted, angry lips intently. Maybe Derek was having a harder time controlling himself than he thought before. It probably had a lot to do with all the anxiety he had siphoned off Jordan, but Derek should have been well within his ability to keep a handle on himself. Derek was unshakable. Unlike Stiles, who seemed to be willing to go almost feral in an attempt to solve his problem of being frustrated and trapped. 

"I'm fine, you aren't. You need to go home," Derek said, more for his benefit than Stiles’. 

“Fuck you,” Stiles hissed at him angrily. “Fuck you and your bizarre, Obi Wan bullshit. You may not give a fuck about me anymore, but why do you have to be such a fucking asshole about it?” Stiles pushed him with a considerable amount of effort but he still couldn’t break free. Rebellious fury seethed in his expression. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You wanted the fucking book, I brought it back like you demanded, and in a timely manner. You don't want me around. You’re pissed and you look like you want to puke. Let me go. Let me fucking leave.” Stiles fluctuated wildly between sounding moderately reasonable and unreasonably angrily. 

“What?” Derek asked, finally realizing what Stiles had meant. “Why do you think I don't care?” Derek asked, definitely not willing to let Stiles go if that’s why he was so angry. 

“You -- look at you. You don’t --" Stiles clamped his mouth shut like he intended to die before uttering another word, but Derek fixed his eyes on Stiles' and stared him down. Stiles broke first, like he always did, but this time instead of being pissed off he was defeated. "Nothing I say means anything to you anymore.” Stiles threw himself in frustration like he was trying one last time to test Derek's resolve. When Derek still didn't let go Stiles collapsed against Derek’s hands, forcing Derek to hold him up like the peaceful protesters did to the police. “You don't get mad, or even joke around. You just stand there like some kind of werewolf shaped rock and stare at me until I give up. You’re not the same person. You’re not my friend --” Stiles stopped as the pitch of his voice raised, threatening to expose exactly how deeply the change in Derek had affected Stiles. 

“You think I don't like you because I don’t -- what? I don't insult you like I used to?” Derek asked, confused as to how patience translated to dislike and apathy. 

“Yes, goddammit! That’s us, that’s me and you! What the fuck else did we have?” Stiles shouted at him, truly and impressively angry. 

Confusion didn’t begin to cover how he felt. Stiles was very angry, but Derek was certain things could get much worse if he let them. Derek didn't understand how this happened though, he thought he was doing better by not purposely antagonizing Stiles. He thought he was finally getting things right, being a good person. For some reason Stiles expected thinly veiled contempt to be some kind of replacement for genuine respect. Derek didn’t want that, not that the banter they had wasn't entertaining at times, but it wasn't enough, not by a long shot. Stiles probably thought that’s all they would ever have. So, he was upset it was gone. But if Stiles truly believed that was all they could ever have, that alone was insulting, and cruel. 

“You’re the one who's fucked up,” Derek said darkly, challenging Stiles. Derek watched his eyes go hard and cold. They narrowed and Stiles’ lips parted, like he was thinking of what vile, bitter thing he would spout off next. Derek spoke before Stiles had a chance to, not caring if his honesty made things worse. “Is that all you have to give me? Thinly veiled contempt and sarcasm? Am I supposed to be so impressed with it I just keep coming back for my daily dose of hate until, when? Until you leave for college, or some other life?” 

The words Stiles was waiting to throw at Derek vanish from his lips. Derek might have stopped whatever hate was coming, but the hard expression on Stiles’ face said nothing was better, not yet. Not knowing what else to say in the wake of Stiles’ bitter silence, Derek pulled him closer. What Derek had been doing so far wasn't working for him, and it obviously hadn't been working for Stiles. It was useless and stupid to fuck around and pretend that he didn't want Stiles to be closer. 

Fiercely, but silently, Stiles forced his wrists free. Challenging Derek to justify continuing to restrain him if he wasn’t fighting back. Letting Stiles go was something Derek was willing to do, as long as he was sure Stiles wasn't going to hurt himself or run off angry for no good reason. 

“I’m not leaving, I’m going to Berkeley,” Stiles hissed, twisting his wrists under his fingers like Derek had inflicted some kind of damage. He was sure he hadn't hurt anything except Stiles’ pride. “Scott and I have had that plan since we were fourteen years old, but you don't know that because all you give a shit about is yourself,” Stiles said hatefully. 

“Stop acting like I was supposed to know how to do this,” Derek said firmly. Stiles narrowed his eyes, confused by Derek’s demand. “Stop acting like I did something wrong because I waited for you to come to me,” Derek said, unwilling to take anymore abuse from Stiles for shit that wasn't his fault. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Stiles fixed his eyes on Derek. They were wide, and wild, his pulse jumped and the scent of his anxiety mixed with everything else like some kind of biological weapon. The scent pounded against Dereks brain like fireworks going off inside his head. He took a deep breath to clear his mind, but that only made it worse, and irritated Derek. 

“What was I supposed to do back then, with a sixteen year old kid? Was it supposed to be me who chased you down, hit on you? When should I have done that? Maybe between Jennifer destroying my free will, and your hilarious stint as a psychotic, evil fox spirit?” All the words were out of his mouth before Derek realized his voice was raised. Instead of being angry and meeting Derek's brutally worded accusations, Stiles shrunk back. His sudden cowardice pissed Derek off even more. “Exactly when would it have been most convenient for you Stiles, so I can relive my fucking mistakes and apologize for aggravating your romantic sensibilities?” 

Speechless didn't look good on Stiles. There was nothing appealing about it at all. He looked stupid, and he was still wet. Like a sad, wet rat. Thankfully the dumbfound, speechless expression gave way to a scowl, but that scowl could have meant any number of things. Derek was done guessing. He took a step back and gave Stiles some space to think about it. Stiles would have to actually talk to him if he wanted anything else from Derek. 

Suddenly Stiles closed the space between them, nothing about his expression changing or relenting. Stiles invaded his space, his long fingers running over Derek’s chest tentatively. The soft, loving sensation was alarming and confusing paired with Stiles’ unhappy expression. Still brimming with indignant impatience, Stiles pressed his fingers against Derek’s chest, his hands running up Derek’s neck and meeting behind his neck. Derek wanted Stiles to kiss him, but he wasn’t sure if that’s what he actually intended to do until Stiles’ lips brushed lightly against his own. Derek circled Stiles’ chest with his hands, spreading his fingers across Stiles’ wide shoulders like he had wanted to do for a very long time. 

It took a moment for Derek to realized Stiles was cold and shivering still. The water looked good on him, but it wasn’t doing Stiles any favors in the cold, clammy loft. Derek had no right to touch Stiles that way when he was hurting and vulnerable. Stiles needed someone to take care of him, not take advantage of him. Peeling Stiles’ wet shirt off over his head, Derek unceremoniously tossed it on the floor. Stiles stood still, watching expectantly as Derek undid his belt and dropped his pants, lowering himself to pull off his wet shoes and socks. He took a candle off the table and lead Stiles over to the day bed in the corner. 

For some reason Stiles expression had gone hard and unforgiving again, but Derek wasn’t fucking around anymore. He shoved a reluctant, stubborn Stiles down on the bed, and lifted the blanket over his shoulders. “No, you’re not taking care of me, just give me some dry clothes. I’ll be fine,” Stiles said, pushing Derek’s hands and the blanket away. 

The disgust in Stiles’ voice hit a nerve. A big one. Derek let go and stood back. He took in where he was and what he was doing, who it was he was doing it with and his insides flooded with guilt. This, like usual, was a terrible idea, but somehow it had gone much further than it should have. Derek crossed a line with Stiles and he wasn’t sure how to take it back. 

“I’m not going near this bed unless you’re --” Stiles stopped when he looked up at Derek. “Huh, figures. Fucking coward.” 

Genuine insults and abuse weren’t anything new to Derek, but it was something new for Stiles. Derek had never heard Stiles say something like that and actually mean it, not to him. Derek had been the punching bag, the scapegoat, the framed accomplice, but he had never been the mark of such blatant hostility. Air was suddenly foreign and tight in his chest, he wanted to crumble like a shitty sandcastle and disappear into the scenery until Stiles was gone. This was what it was like to actually be resented bys Stiles, without the buffer of insecurity or the constant fear of rejection. 

He deserved it. Everyone else had been getting the best Derek had to give, except Stiles. All he had done for Stiles was take away the one part of their relationship Stiles actually enjoyed. Stiles watched from the sidelines while he patched things up with Scott, found a place for himself in the pack, helped everyone else with everything he had. Everyone except Stiles. Derek realized he had let fear get the best of him again, just when he thought he was past it. Just when he was congratulating himself on well he had done. He still had so many fucking messes to clean up. 

Defiantly, Stiles stood up and moved toward the table, his clothes, the door, somewhere away from Derek. His hand shot out and grabbed Stiles by the arm, his fingers wrapping around cold, clammy muscles that jerked away when Derek touched him. Derek wasn’t sure if it was fear, anger, or spite, but it wasn't right. It was the opposite of how he wanted Stiles to react to his touch. Stiles looked down at Derek’s hand and back up at Derek in a way that would have been amusingly deja vu-like, if Derek had it in him to laugh. As it was, the memory of that night outside the police station served to remind him how far they had come, and how far away they still were from anything that remotely resembled what Derek wanted the two of them to be. 

“You’ve done a lot of manhandling tonight. I might not be able to do much damage, but I am fucking certain I can get my point across if you touch me again,” Stiles threatened darkly, pulling his arm away in a gesture they had repeated far too many times. 

“I was scared. I am a coward. You’re right,” Derek blurted out, some kind of insanity or hope motivating his words. Derek was sure he wasn’t smart enough to know when to admit he was wrong so openly, not like this. 

Watching the resolve and resentment fall away from Stiles’ face, watching as his whole body lost the tension holding it together, was more painful than any confession Derek could ever make. Stiles spent too much time being hurt, by everyone and everything. He was breakable, but he fought so hard to erase that fact, Derek had forgotten it was possible to do this much damage to Stiles. 

After so many years of failing, Derek was finally able to recognize a moment for heroics, but this wasn't like fighting something big and deadly. He wasn’t sure what the right thing to do was. That had been the problem all along. That was how he got here, letting fear and his inability to take a risk with Stiles choke their relationship to death until Derek was on the brink of losing it. 

Before he could talk himself out of it again, Derek pulled his shirt off. He started to undo his belt buckle when Stiles pushed his hands away and ripped it off him with long, deft fingers. Pants in a puddle around his ankles, Stiles crowded him against the bed, pushing him into the mattress. Soft, insistent lips opened his mouth, forcing his attention away as he kicked his pants and shoes to the floor. 

Friction, lips, and hands, too many hands, swept him into a breathless frenzy. He buried his nose against Stiles’ neck, Derek’s mouth pressing against his throat. Small greedy noises vibrated against his lips as Stiles gracelessly moved against him, rhythmically grinding their hips together in a way that should have felt juvenile and clumsy. Instead it satisfied his deep, animalistic need to feel Stiles rough against him, take in his scent, listen to his raw, fervent need. 

“My boxers, you forgot them,” Derek smiled against Stiles cheek as Derek tried to pull them down, but Stiles was too firmly attached and he was trapped against the mattress. 

Releasing Derek reluctantly, Stiles moved down his body like he wasn’t willing to give up contact. “I didn’t forget,” Stiles said. 

“Wait, do you want to leave them on?” Derek asked, letting his confusion push him to conclusions. He cringed realizing he should have just asked why, but he wasn't very good at this. He never had been. 

“...Fuck are you? I’m going to take them off, now that you’ve told me you want me to,” Stiles said, like Derek was an idiot for not understanding that to begin with. Stiles pulled his boxers off in one swift movement and threw them over his shoulder. 

“I didn’t...” Derek trailed off, realizing he hadn’t asked permission to strip Stiles down, he had simply done what he wanted without asking if it was okay because Derek assumed he knew better, that his motivations were enough justification. 

“That was kind of a dick move,” Stiles said as he climbed back on top of Derek, obviously unphased. 

“I’m sorry, I should have --” 

“Wow, as much as I’m impressed I get two of those in the span of what? Ten minutes? Shut-up.” Stiles brought his lips down hard, demanding Derek’s attention go back to what they were doing before. 

Gasping, gripping Stiles’ neck and shoulder, Derek lifted his hips to meet the urgent pressure as Stiles rocked against him. His skin was still cold in too many places, distracting Derek from enjoying the contact as much as he wanted to. He pushed against Stiles shoulders, easily maneuvering him under the covers. Derek was surprised when Stiles pushed back, shifting Derek onto his front. Stiles draped himself over Derek’s back, one hand wrapped around his shoulder, the other roaming languidly, testing skin and muscle tenderly. 

“Do you want me like this?” Stiles asked, pressing his lips against Derek’s shoulder. 

“Yes,” Derek answered, stunned by the immediate ache of pleasure that overwhelmed him when he admitted it so easily. 

Stiles dragged in a long, ragged breath and held it, like he was talking himself into saying something. Derek let himself relax under Stiles, wishing he would talk, or do something more and prove he was done talking. “I’m going to fuck you like this if you want me to, and it’s not going to be a one time thing. I’m going to do it often, as often as you want. You will not be an asshole to me, or give me weird, silent clues anymore. I get to be your fucking boyfriend, for real, or I’m leaving this god damned apartment right now and never coming back,” Stiles threatened. 

“Okay,” Derek agreed, dazed by the sudden tirade of demands. Derek wanted to give Stiles everything he asked for, easily. He had for a long time. There was nothing to consider. He never expected Stiles to ask for it outright and make it that easy. 

Like a reward for his compliance, Stiles rolled his hips against Derek’s ass, letting out a short, breathy groan. Derek pressed his face into the pillow, stifling a quiet needful plea. Stiles stopped, his hand frozen in place on Derek's back. 

“Don’t do that,” Stiles demanded quietly, the irritation thick in his voice. “I want to hear you. I want to know you like it.” 

It shouldn’t surprise him. Stiles was cocky, mouthy, brave and demanding when it came to everything else. Of course he was going to be like that in bed, but Derek wasn’t prepared for the effect it had on him. Being told to be loud made Derek’s cheeks feel warm. He wanted to grind his hips into the bed to relieve some of the tension it built between his legs, but he didn’t want to get off that way, not with Stiles in such a promising position against his ass. 

Snapping of a drawer above his head made him look up to see what Stiles was doing. He pulled out an amber bottle of something Derek thought Cora left behind ages ago. Stiles cracked it open and the scent of coconut filled the air around them. It was a clean, organic sort of scent, not chemical and fake like most of the things that came in bottles like that. 

“What is that? Did you put it there?” Derek asked, surprised, but he never thought to investigate it. So many people were in and out of his loft, and it was small and innocuous looking. 

“Very soon, I’m sure, we’ll have a discussion about how much effort teenagers are willing to put into hiding how much sex they have, and how much time they spend talking about it. Not to mention coming up with ideas about how to make it better. For now, you can silently reap the benefits of my genius,” Stiles said. 

Cold liquid pooled at the base of his spine, tickling as it crawled outward, responding to the heat of his skin. Stiles set the capped bottle next to his head. Derek went to reach for it, stopping when Stiles sunk his hands and fingers into Derek’s lower back and dragged them upward, pressing into Derek’s muscles with enough pressure and slide to feel utterly amazing. He let out a loud, blissful groan as Stiles pulled the heels of his hands back in a long sweeping motion. Slick, insistent fingers traveled over his ass, sliding against his hole then slicking up Stiles’ dick with loud, wet sounds. 

“I’ve wanted you under my hands like this for so long. I don’t even know where to start,” Stiles said, pressing his fingers into Derek’s lower back enthusiastically. “I’m still kinda pissed at you,” Stiles admitted as he let his nails bite into Derek’s skin slightly, dragging down his back. 

Responding didn’t seem necessary, not when Derek was struggling to not sound like a bad porno. All the noises that came pouring out of him as Stiles worked him over felt good, but unfamiliar. Usually he was quiet, silent even, but this wasn’t a frantic, stolen moment anymore. It stopped being that the second Stiles set down his ground rules. This wasn't the only time this was going to happen. Stiles said so, and Derek agreed, therefore it was true. 

‘Given the amount of thought I put into this over the years, I probably should have stuck to dry humping you through your underwear. Much less crazy,” Stiles said, talking to himself more than Derek. 

“No, fuck no, this is better,” Derek breathed into the pillow tucked under his chest. 

“You like this plan?” Stiles asked, leaning over and sliding himself against Derek’s slick back, the wet sounds both thrilling and just as distracting as Stiles dick sliding between his ass cheeks. 

“Yes, I like this plan,” Derek admitted quietly. 

“I think if you keep this up I might not be able to stay pissed,” Stiles breathed against his ear. 

“Talk less,” he demanded, his voice rough and low as he lifted his ass to meet Stiles’ slow thrusts. 

“You wish,” Stiles scoffed. 

“Fuck,” Derek cursed, wanting to concentrate on Stiles’ hands and dick, not his constantly running mouth. “At least promise you’ll shut up when you fuck me?” Derek asked, hoping he wasn't going to have to develop a kink just to get through the banter. 

The sound of a sharp, quiet breath came right before tension flooded Stiles’ body. He was quiet now and Derek could sense the tightness of his chest and shoulders. Derek turned his head and lifted himself to see Stiles better, until he felt a slick hand sliding between them. He dropped himself back down on the pillow, concentrating on the promising direction Stiles’ hand traveled. 

Sliding over Derek’s ass, fingers pressed firmly against him. Small, slick circles threatened to break him open. “Do you like this?” Stiles asked, the angry, irritated edge in his voice had vanished.

“Yes, I want you to do a lot more though,” Derek insisted. 

“Like what?” Stiles asked, his mouth pressing against the back of Derek’s neck.

“You know,” Derek said, sure Stiles meant to be sexy, but saying it out loud felt exasperating. 

“Don’t make me guess.” Stiles breathed out against his neck as he rocked himself against Derek’s ass, dragging his hips over slick skin. 

This was obviously important to Stiles, the urgency in his voice gave it away. Telling Stiles outright meant he cared enough to do so. Derek never said anything like that out loud and that hadn’t worked for him so far. Derek was smart enough to figure that out, even worked up and trapped between Stiles and the bed. 

“I want your fingers inside me,” Derek said, ignoring the twinge of shame in the honesty. Stiles hummed in approval, rutting against him in small, slow movements, fingers still pressing dangerous circles against his hole. 

Saying it outloud felt better than Derek expected it to. Now getting it was a sure thing because it was Stiles. He didn’t play games like that, the inevitability made the anticipation exciting. 

“Then what?” Stiles asked, probably wanting to plot his next few moves. 

Stiles was a planner, impulsive, yes, but a calculating, methodic tactician first and foremost. Derek loved that about him. Heavy, thrilling desire crept up his chest and neck, flushing his cheeks a hot red as he considered asking for, and getting everything he wanted from Stiles.

“Oh, god,” Derek moaned, his forehead pressed against his his arm. Derek was going to get what he wanted, because he asked, and it wouldn’t go wrong because Stiles would orchestrate the whole thing. 

“Tell me.” Stiles dragged the bit of rough stubble on his chin against Derek’s shoulder, making him gasp again. 

“I want you to fuck me, hard, and come inside me. I want you to stay there until I get off. Then I want the shower, hot, really hot, and your hands all over me. I want you to sleep in my bed, upstairs, in my room. I want to wake up to you sucking my dick and I don’t want you to leave until after breakfast tomorrow,” Derek let the most important things pour out of him like a confession. Stiles wasn't the only one who could plan, he was just better at it. 

“Is that all?” Stiles smiled against his skin, the flat wetness of his teeth brushing against Derek’s neck. 

“No, I’ll tell you when I think of more,” Derek promised. 

“It’s fucking sick how much that turns me on,” Stiles groaned, smashing his face against Derek’s neck, his body tense and shaking with need. 

Slick fingers pressed against him, one sliding in slowly, working and twisting until he was loose and moaning. Stiles worked another finger inside him, gasping at the promising tight, wet skin. 

“I was doing this before I came over. I was wishing I could do it to you, just like this.” Stiles lifted himself up and rested his hand on Derek’s back. 

Pumping his fingers in and out, Stiles said quiet, encouraging words, pulling Derek’s hips back and tucking his knees underneath his body further. The lights came back on, along with the whirring of the wall heaters and the refrigerator. 

“Jesus christ, I don't know how long I can last if I can see you like this,” Stiles warned him. 

Derek didn't care as long as he smelled like Stiles when they were done. They had all night to do it again. Dull pressure replaced the sensation of Stiles’ fingers inside him. Derek gasped at the stretch and slide as Stiles buried himself deep. Running his hands slowly down Derek’s back and hips, Stiles wrapped one hand around his shoulder and buried the other one in his short hair. Derek’s arms were wrapped tight around the pillow under his chest, keeping them far away from his aching dick. 

Muscles shaking against the backs of Derek’s thighs told him Stiles was using considerable effort to slow himself down as he stroked himself slowly in and out of Derek. But Derek didn’t want that. He wanted everything Stiles could give him, even if it was short and sweet. He pushed back against Stiles, urging him on. Stiles picked up his pace, but kept himself close until Derek was gasping at each stroke. Derek let out a low, wrecked moan, his own stomach muscles shivering with need. 

“Oh, god.” Stiles buried himself deep, rutting hard against Derek’s ass. 

Grabbing Derek’s hips to drive himself deeper, Stiles repeated the short, brutal movement then out a short, broken moan. Stiles shuddered, slicking Derek up with come as his movements went loose and jerky. He fell against Derek’s back, catching his breath loudly, his hands sliding over Derek’s back to his shoulders again. Then Stiles slid a hand over his hip and down between his legs. Long, needful, aggressive fingers wrapped around Derek and stroked firmly, Stiles’ hand just slick enough to pull smoothly over his dick. 

Derek lifted himself up so he could look over his shoulder and watch Stiles. He wanted to know what Stiles looked like, blissed out, and panting against his back. Stiles lifted his eyes as he moved, the tiny crease between his eyebrows and his open mouth were just like Derek imagined they would be. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Stiles said, his voice ragged and raw as he dragged his free hand over Derek’s back. 

Words like that never had the power to undo him the way they did when Stiles said them. The tight, blissful tension between his legs surged as Stiles pawed at his back, his lips sliding over slick skin. The tension peaked, reaching the point when Derek knew he was about to come. He pushed back against Stiles, rocking his hips as the pleasure spiraled up. Stiles was still hard, sliding in and out as Derek fucked against him. Stiles stroked him, matching the pace of Derek’s hips. 

“Come for me, please,” Stiles said frantically, burying his fingers in Derek’s hair again and pulling his head back, determined to see the orgasm wreck Derek’s face as well as his body. 

Derek held off, prolonging the pleasure until he couldn't stand it anymore, until his body shook with the effort of holding back. Stiles stroked down and held his hand over Derek’s dick. He cried out, pumping himself into Stiles’ hand, his legs shaking and burning. When it was over he collapsed against the bed, moving easily as Stiles turned him over. 

Slick, wet come painted his stomach and chest as Stiles wiped his hand clean in one long stroke against Derek’s body. Stiles climbed on top of him, tucking himself against Derek’s chest, leaving soft, wet, open kisses all over Derek’s neck. 

“You know exactly what you're doing don’t you?” Derek asked, the euphoria of his climax significantly heightened by the scent of the two of them, the chemistry their scents created as they mingled so completely. 

“Maybe I do, you like it, right?” Stiles asked, still marking Derek with his mouth and hands. 

“I’m going to go feral here in a second if you don't stop,” Derek breathed out, barely able to keep his eyes open as the scents destroyed everything but the blissed out parts of his brain. 

Stiles dragged himself up, looming over Derek on his elbows, waiting expectantly like he was sure it wasn't quite over. Derek grabbed his arms and dragged him down, burying his face against Stiles chest, licking off the sweat and come, letting the strongest of the scents burn into his mind in a way he had never experienced before. 

“Dammit, all I want to do is fuck you now. Every time I smell that fucking coconut shit I’m going to be half out of my mind wanting to fuck you. Was that the plan?” Derek asked, needing to know Stiles did this for him, that it wasn't just an accident. 

“Oh, yeah. I won't name names, but certain best friends, who also happen to be very confused werewolves, rely on me pretty heavily to figure certain things out because I am totally shameless and will literally try anything at least once,” Stiles laughed. 

Wet Stiles was hot, angry Stiles was less attractive, but still compelling, but happy, blissed-out Stiles was like running-hard-on-the-full-moon irresistible. Derek pressed his nose against Stiles neck, kissing and licking his way up to his ear. He didn’t care if Stiles loved him back, he didn’t need it, he wanted it, but he didn’t need it. Stiles needed to know how much power he had. He came here thinking he had none, angry because he thought he didn't matter to Derek. 

“I love you. I can’t believe you want to do such awesome things for me,” Derek said, pressing his nose into the hair above Stiles’ ear and breathing deep. 

“Are you sure you love me? Or is this just post sex euphoria talking?” Stiles asked, the uptick in his heartbeat giving away his anxiety. 

“I’m sure. I’ve had a lot of time to figure it out,” Derek assured him. “Boyfriends, right? We trade clothes now and kiss each other goodbye no matter who’s watching?” Derek asked, grinning even though Stiles couldn't see his face. 

“Yeah, and I expect cuddling on the couch when we hang out, like Kira and Scott do, and you can buy me ridiculous birthday presents... Maybe even an awkward family dinner with my dad and Scott’s mom where I loudly profess how much I love you and how little power they have to keep us apart,” Stiles sighed, laughing quietly. 

“You say that like your joking, but you mean it don't you?” Derek asked. 

“Yes... No -- maybe yes? I don't know. I kinda don't want anyone to know for a while,” Stiles admitted. “I kinda want a honeymoon, you know? Like a grace period in which I get to love you secretly and you’re all mine.” 

It should have sounded like a bad idea, but it thrilled him instead. He was speechless, reduced to showing Stiles how much he wanted the same thing with his roaming, fevered hands and ragged breath. He sought out Stiles’ mouth, pressing slow, languid kisses to his lips. 

“We’re going to have a lot of sex tonight, aren't we?” Stiles asked, breathing softly against Derek’s cheek. 

“Yeah,” Derek answered.


End file.
